My parents didn't have ''That N's Crazy'' or ''Is It Something I Said?'' buried in their record stacks. Pryor's profanity-soaked stories about sex and drugs, and his excessive use of the n-word offended them. They preferred Bill Cosby.

I didn't discover Pryor until I watched ''Wanted/Richard Pryor Live In Concert'' on HBO after my parents finally bought cable in the mid '80s.

I'll never forget his imitations of people having sex. Or how he mercilessly teased anyone, from a Chinese restaurant owner who couldn't speak proper English to boxer Leon Spinks, who was caught with $1.50 worth of cocaine, and who had few teeth.

''Bad luck be tipping up on Leon. That's what gives him such heart to fight. Leon said, 'I ain't got nuthin' to lose. I ain't got no money, I ain't got no teefus','' Pryor joked on ''Live.''

I understood why my parents didn't like him. He was cool; a grown-up who cussed and talked about sex like we did at school.

In 1992, HBO's ''Def Comedy Jam'' brought raunchy, cutting-edge black humor into homes. I was one of the millions of young African-Americans who tuned in Fridays to watch Bernie Mac, Steve Harvey, J. Anthony Brown and Chris Tucker.

Finally, I didn't have to wait for the occasional Pryor, Eddie Murphy or Whoopi Goldberg specials to see black comedy.

Listening to the CDs, I realized I'd wasted too many years with cubic zirconia comics. Pryor was the real deal and many of today's comedians should listen to his boxed set.

Pryor transcended comedy. His stories about drugs, pimps and prostitutes brought the 'hood to the middle class before N.W.A. kept it real.

In the 1970s, Pryor was the voice of the streets. The country was emerging from the Civil Rights Movement and racial tensions were still high, but Pryor was relentless.

He unflinchingly talked about sex, interracial dating, drugs and race. He offended and educated, weaving social commentary and personal experiences into his routines.

He was one of the first comedians to openly lampoon whites in a mixed setting, now common in black comedy.

Most importantly, Pryor exorcised his demons on stage. He turned his personal screw-ups abusing drugs, setting himself on fire, suffering a heart attack and shooting his car into memorable routines. Joking about his misfortunes showed blacks that it was OK to laugh at ourselves.

Today, many rising comedians force audiences to laugh at each other instead of together. Male comics dog the sisters, and women dog the brothers.

Young talents emulate Pryor's profanity, misogyny and belligerence, but lack his wit, storytelling and commentary. They rely on toilet humor, sex and fan humiliation.

As a comic, Pryor had flaws. Some of his material was too crass and infantile. Seeing the beauty of blackness on a trip to Africa in 1979 inspired him to drop the n-word from his act, he said. Yet, he never saw enough beauty in women to stop calling them bitches.

Throughout his career, he struggled to make his comedy mean something, to have a lasting affect. He would forsake a laugh to impart his message: be honest with yourself and learn from your mistakes.